


Train in Vain

by cereal



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'd probably have to report on it and everything — or no, that'd be a conflict of interest. I'd step up of course, leave the weather map, break the news to Storybrooke that their hometown hero turned trusted sports anchor is nothing but a cheater." (tv news anchor AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Train in Vain

**Author's Note:**

> My second-ever OUAT fic, written for CS AU Week (day 6, modern, but posted on day 7, free-for-all!). Title from another Clash song, which is maybe gonna be a thing I do in this fandom?

She's never seen him wear green before.

It's such a small, ridiculous thing — the color of his shirt — but it hammers home just how much she doesn't _really_ know him.

Office friends, work spouses, the sportscaster and the weatherman, bosom buddies right up until the moment they step out the door of Storybrooke's finest newsroom and into the real world.

Which is where she's somehow found him now — the real world.

An overcast, cool Sunday morning at the high school track, and Killian Jones running laps in a green t-shirt.

She can tell the moment he spots her, something in his posture changes, but he doesn't say anything in greeting until he's rounding the bend closest to her.

"Race you," he shouts, not breaking his stride.

"What?" she calls, but he doesn't respond, just continues barreling toward the straightaway.

She'd heard him just fine, obviously, but it takes a couple of seconds for her to catch up mentally, and then she's sprinting toward him, hollering.

"Go!" and she takes off, running past him at full speed. She should've warmed up first, stretched, her usual routine, but he started this, and she's got a competitive streak in her a mile wide.

She can hear him at her heels, gaining on her, and it pushes her to run faster, go harder, her legs burning with the feel of it as she rounds the first turn.

It's enough to give her a glimpse of him, but she can't tell if he's already going all out, or if she's gonna get passed coming out of the next turn.

High school track feels like ages ago, but she remembers David shouting from the sidelines — _Run your own race!_ — and puts it into practice now, tuning out how Killian may or may not be doing and focusing on going as hard as she can.

She makes it into the second straightaway still in the lead and spares a thought to hope that they're only racing a single lap — that just puts the last two turns ahead of her, and she can do it.

She can do it.

Killian falls into step behind her, too close to be an accident, and he's fucking _drafting_ on her, clearly preparing to overtake on one of those turns, but she'd screwed up her pacing, she's got nothing left if he does.

They round the first bend and there he is, coming up on the inside, edging closer. She holds her position for only a few seconds more and he passes just as they the round the second half.

It's a short, straight sprint to be back where they started and there's no way she can get it back, but she's not willing to accept a clean defeat, not when it'll be all over the newsroom by tomorrow's show.

There's a pile of mats lying on the edge of the grass — the high school football team in the thick of two-a-days (something she'd reported on Friday morning) — and with one last burst of energy, she tackles him into them.

He goes down easy, clearly unprepared for all of her weight to hit him mid-stride, and she rolls them until he's flat on his back and she's straddling him across the abdomen, his forearms pinned to the mats by her hands.

"What the fuck was that?" he says, panting a little, but there's no bite to the words.

His chest is rising and falling beneath her, his t-shirt damp with sweat against the inside of her bare thighs. She'd almost put on leggings this morning instead of her shorts, and she's secretly a little grateful now that she hadn't.

He's quite... _firm_. All muscle and bone and warm, solid man.

There'd been a carnival at the station a few months ago, Killian taking a turn in the dunk tank, and she remembers him climbing out of it, some chiseled sea god emerging from the murky depths.

It was one of the reasons she hadn't allowed herself to see him out of the office — because he was so _handsome_ , and so _nice_ , and so _smart_ , she'd definitely give in, and she'd definitely regret it.

Which is why having him sweaty and panting under her isn't exactly a surprise, but it's not exactly expected either.

"Couldn't let you win, Jones," she says, tightening her grip around his forearms to punctuate her point.

"And so you thought cheating was better?"

She shrugs, settling back a little more firmly on him, like she's got nowhere to be and could keep him pinned all day long, but the movement makes his face flicker with...something, and when it sparks an equally _something_ reaction low in her stomach, she's off him like a shot.

Pushing to her feet, she extends a hand down to help him up, but he waves it off and stands on his own.

"Oh, come on now, don't be a sore loser." She nudges him with her shoulder, trying to ignore the smell of sweat and deodorant and dryer sheets or whatever it is that makes Killian smell like Killian.

It's missing the cologne he usually wears to work, something expensive and masculine, and she finds she misses it, thinking of the day the air conditioning had gone haywire, freezing everybody, and he'd chivalrously draped his jacket around her shoulders (and grinning when David had scrambled to follow suit with Mary Margaret).

"I'm not a _loser_ , you're a _cheater_ , Swan." He dramatically clasps both hands over his heart. "Imagine the devastation when Storybrooke High realizes their star athlete, the one who still holds — how many records is it?"

"Four," she mumbles.

"— _Four_ school records is nothing but a cheater. They'll have to put a little asterisk by your name and everything."

She rolls her eyes, the two of them falling into step for a cool-down lap. One all-out sprint isn't much of a workout, but she's not going to get anything else done with him here.

When she doesn't respond, he continues. "You'd probably have to report on it and everything — or no, that'd be a conflict of interest. I'd step up of course, leave the weather map, break the news to Storybrooke that their hometown hero turned trusted sports anchor is nothing but a cheater."

She cracks her neck, shaking out her limbs as they continue walking.

"It'd be your word against mine," she says. "And who are they gonna believe — their 'hometown hero' or some guy — not even an _American_ , who just last week couldn't accurately predict rain."

"Hey, _hey_ ," he warns her. "I'm good at my job. The weather is just cruel and ultimately sometimes unpredictable...it's like you in that way."

"Oh, admit it, you're just another pretty face meant to fill time between the _real_ news. You're no —"

"Emma. _Emma_ , don't say it."

"— no Al Roker."

They've reached the opposite end of the track, another pile of mats sitting by the goal post, and she can tell what he's going to do the same second he decides to do it.

Then he's scooping her up, tossing her over his shoulder in a half-hearted fireman's carry.

"Put me down!" she hollers, squirming to get out of his hold, but he's strong, and on a mission.

In one quick movement, he tosses her to the mats, perching over her the same way she'd done to him earlier, hands pinned above her head.

"Say it."

She tosses her head back and forth. "No."

He leans closer.

"Emma. _Say it_."

"No."

His knees tighten around her rib cage, everything hot and sticky and she is playing with _fire_.

"Then we'll stay here. You'll miss your Sunday dinner with David and Mary Margaret, I'll deprive some perky young thing at the pub of the pleasure of my company — the balance of the universe entirely upended, all because you wouldn't say..."

" _Fine_ ," she mutters. "You're every bit the meteorologist Al Roker is."

"What's that?" His face looms close to hers.

"You're as good as Al Roker."

"Try one more time."

She blows out a breath right in his face, making him flutter his eyelashes. "You're _better_ than Al Roker."

His expression splits into a wide, happy grin and he releases her arms. "There, was that so hard?"

She rolls her eyes, trying to wiggle out from underneath him, but he's still got all his weight perched over her middle.

"Well, we've already determined I'm a cheater, what's lying, too?" She smiles at him, sickly sweet and entirely fake.

"Oh, Swan, Swan, Swan, this is a dangerous game you're playing. Do you really want to go back to the war and turmoil of my arrival at the station?"

 _War_ was probably a little strong, but things _had_ been tense. She'd hated him practically before he arrived, him and Robin, handpicked from some station in England to help turn _Sunrise with Storybrooke_ into a more polished product.

They didn't have competition in their own market, the town was too small for that, but Regina wanted them doing the "real" stories, ones that would get picked up by sister stations across the country, ones that would win awards.

So here came Robin, the producer, and Killian, the weatherman, to spice things up off camera and on.

She'd...reacted poorly.

But that was two years ago now, and they'd been friends — _work_ friends — ever since.

"You wouldn't dare," she challenges. "Who are you gonna talk to on commercial? Mary Margaret?"

"Maybe," he shrugs, scooting down her body in a completely maddening way, until he's over her feet, holding them down. "Maybe I'll talk to Ruby." His tone is heavy with implication, but Emma just snorts.

"Right, and risk Victor messing with your monitor?"

" _Go fuck yourselves, San Diego_?" he quotes.

"Exactly."

"Not a chance," he says and then taps her feet. "Give me a hundred."

It's not worth arguing, and she _did_ need to get some semblance of a work out in, so she begins the crunches, Killian counting them off.

She makes a point not to show any sign of exertion, like she could do this all damn day, because he'd pounce on any sign of weakness.

When she's done, she nudges him with her foot. "Your turn."

"Oh," he says. "Oh, right. Let me just —" and he rises up on his knees, making a big show of peeling his t-shirt off, skin all glistening and tan and —

"Fuck you," she says, slapping a hand against his abs, firm and damp with cooled sweat. "What even is this? Who is this for?"

"It's for you, Swan," he says with a wink. "It's all for you."

"Bullshit, do your crunches, Captain America."

"Captain _Britain_ , love."

"Whatever."

He goes all the way to 200, just to be an ass, and when he's done, he pops back to his feet like it was refreshing or something.

"What do you think? Another run? Push-ups? _Burpees_?"

"Shower," she says. They've screwed around enough that her limited work-out time is already nearly gone, she has to get home and get ready for Sunday-Funday at the Nolan's.

"Sounds wonderful, yours or mine?"

He's not usually _quite_ this overt at work, but this is still pretty typical Killian, and she reminds herself for the thousandth time that she absolutely _cannot_ just sleep with him once to get it out of her system.

She has to see him five days a week at work, across the anchor desk from the Mary Margaret and David — the only instance of office romance that has _ever_ worked. (And it's only because they were a high school romance before an office one.)

" _Alone_ , Jones."

"Another time then, lass."

"You wish."

&&.

She's never felt that the start of her day could be classified as "morning." Up well before the sunrise and at work by 4 is not _morning_ , it's a hellaciously bad decision.

But there's not a better way to describe that, first thing Monday _morning_ , she can already tell she's in for a week.

There's some disgusting green _thing_ on her desk — the off-camera, real one — and a post-it with a smiley face stuck to it, that she's still, despite the lack of actual letters or anything, able to tell was written by Killian.

She takes a cautious sip, and then another, because it doesn't taste like it looks. It doesn't taste great, but it also doesn't taste terrible, and then, because it's there, she begins nursing it as she goes through her morning routine — e-mails, today's broadcast, a few lead follow-ups, wholly absorbed until Killian's voice interrupts.

"You got it!" he chirps happily.

"Well, yeah, you left it on my desk. I _did_ consider calling in the containment squad, but you know me, I'm a risk-taker."

"Glad to hear it, Swan, that'll go perfect with today's activity."

"What?"

He points at the smoothie like it should be obvious. "Nutrients _for today's activity_."

"Did you hit your head or something? What are you talking about?"

He leans back against her desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. "I'm gonna train you."

"You're gonna _what_?"

He shoves off the desk, squatting down so they're eye-level. "Swan, look, it's clear you're a fan of this." He gestures to his torso and she wants to argue, really she does, but she can't, because she _is_ a fan of...that.

"And _this_ doesn't just happen. Based on the prowess you showed yesterday, I'm willing to take you on as a client."

She stares at him and can literally feel her mouth hanging open.

"Pro bono," he adds.

"Uh. I don't know what to say." Because she doesn't.

Is this really happening?

And how?

And _why_?

She changes course, better to get him on equally shaky footing.

"What are saying, Jones? Are you saying I don't look good? You're saying I need _help_? That my body isn't as _tight_ as it could be?" She lets her voice build in intensity, the accusations hanging thickly in the air.

His eyes widen, just as planned. "No, no, no, you look — I mean..." He scratches behind his ear. "You look, you're great — _beautiful_ , and, and, and...in shape already, clearly, and very...uh. Tight. I just — well —"

She can't help it, she laughs, feeling better already.

"All right there, guy, calm down. You can _train_ me, but only because it'll give me a reason to drop out of the spin class Mary Margaret signed me up for."

"Outstanding, meet me at the rec center at 3."

"Fine."

"Fine. Bye." He moves to leave, only to remember that his desk is directly across from hers. He slides into his chair and makes a show of putting his headphones on, like that'll cover for it.

She laughs to herself once more, whatever all this is, it's not like she has anything better to do.

 _Spin class_ , as if.

&&.

From the top of the rock-climbing wall, spin class is beginning to look like a fantastic idea.

"That's it, Swan, now just come on back down!"

"I think I'm fine up here," she calls. She's not, not really, but going up, she wasn't aware of how high she was getting, and now that she's here, it's all she can think about.

"Emma Mildred Swan, you get back down right now."

"My middle name isn't Mildred."

"Okay, you come back down here and tell me what it is then."

"Nice try," she shouts, looking down at him, just able to make out the grin on his face before the world starts spinning again, and she slams her eyes shut.

It takes a full twenty minutes, but she _does_ make it down, down to march right by Killian, out the door of the center, and into the shitty bar across the street.

She's thrown back a shot of tequila before Killian catches up to her.

"All right," he says. "No heights, noted."

She makes him buy the next round.

&&.

It's not that she's not athletic — she is. She's incredibly athletic, with the high school superlative and the grown up career to match.

It's just that Killian keeps picking things outside of her normal routine, to varying degrees of success.

Rock-climbing had been a dud.

Rowing had been less of a dud, right up until an increasingly antagonistic bit of banter had led to them both overturning the boat to spite the other.

Boxing, she'd _thought_ , was a great success, but Ruby had cornered her the next morning in the studio, making her swear on her Bug that she'd never hit Killian in the face again.

(Whether it was actual concern for preserving something of beauty or because it meant she had to layer the make up on extra thick, Emma didn't ask.)

There'd been swimming, which was fine, she was a fine swimmer, but there'd been all that skin and it had been so _wet_ , and Killian was _staring_ , and _Emma_ was _staring_ and they'd both hustled into their towels and it hadn't been brought up since.

Hiking, biking, frisbee, she wasn't expecting any of this when Killian announced his plans to train her, but she wasn't _not_ enjoying it.

She just didn't realize what it was. Or, well, what it _looked_ like.

&&.

Another Monday and Killian's across the studio, playing games with the green screen with Robin, holding up Robin's green hoodie in ways that make them look headless or handless (or brainless) on the monitors.

Emma's straightening her papers, practicing pronouncing the name of the new Storybrooke High quarterback over and over.

They're already four games into the season, which means it's been more than a month since the two-a-days and running into Killian on the track.

Which isn't important. It doesn't mean anything.

What _is_ important is that she _still_ can't pronounce this kid's name. Every time she sees it, it looks exactly like "Rumplestiltskin," and she can't shake it.

"I think it's nice," Mary Margaret says.

"I think it's frustrating," Emma says. " _Swan_ , see how easy that is? _Swan_. Not like this beast, how many syllables is this? Feels like forty."

"What? Emma, no, I mean you and Killian," Mary Margaret says.

"Wait, what?"

"That you guys are finally dating, you're good for each other."

"We are _not_ dating," Emma's voice raises higher than she means it to, and she quickly earns a rebuke in her ear.

"Hot mic," Elsa warns over the earpiece. "And yes, you are dating him."

Is she?

 _Is she_?

Fuck.

&&.

Obviously Emma's only option is to _stop_ not-dating him.

Whatever they're _not_ doing, they need to _not_ do it officially.

Which is why she's on day six of begging off of "training," making up a million excuses to get out of whatever struck Killian's fancy at fucking REI today.

Yesterday — a Saturday, one of only two days she wasn't actually contractually obligated to see him — he'd shown up at her house with racquets and a little canister of blue rubber balls and she'd almost given in.

Especially when he'd put on his protective goggles right there in her doorway and grinned in a way that made him look about fifteen years younger.

But no.

You don't find coworkers endearing, not like that.

Although you probably don't have standing Sunday plans with coworkers either, but she does.

And because those coworkers — also her best friends and also the show's lead co-anchors — are the meddling sort, those plans, for this week at least, now involve Killian.

"What is he doing here?" Emma hisses to Mary Margaret, cornering her in the kitchen while she checks on the roast.

"He's eating dinner with us," Mary Margaret replies, calmly, reasonably, like she doesn't realize how...how... _egregious_ all this is. "Honestly, I think it's cute that the two of you have such active little dates, but you ought to eat a meal with your boyfriend once in a while, too."

"He is _not_ my boyfriend."

"Have you told him that?"

"What? No! I don't have to, he _knows_ , we're not dating."

"Okay, why don't you tell me what this is?" Mary Margaret says in that infuriating should've-been-a-teacher voice, gesturing to the plate of watermelon cubes on the island.

"It's...watermelon."

"And how is it cut?"

"In cubes."

"Exactly, cut _specifically_ in cubes because Killian did it, because when I went to cut it into slices, he stopped me and said you preferred it this way. Something a boyfriend would know."

"Okay, fine, well, that just proves we _do_ eat together, so you're...wrong."

"Am I, Emma?"

(Shit.)

&&.

 _Another_ goddamn Monday morning, but at least the broadcast is done for the day when she traps Killian in the breakroom, making sure she can still see the door in case anybody else dares to come in.

"Are we dating?"

He laughs. "What?"

"I just — have you been dating me this whole time and I didn't know it?"

His face sobers, his hands coming to rest heavily on her shoulders. "Emma...love, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but...we're actually _married_."

"Oh, shut up."

"Didn't you realize?"

"I hate you."

"I don't think that's a very nice thing to say to your husband."

"Go away."

"Once again, I think you should be nicer to me, or we're going to get divorced for irreconcilable differences and you might not even know."

&&.

It's some sort of twisted, cruel punishment from the universe that all this has her so worked up and anxious and the one thing she'd like to do to deal with it — work out — is now tainted by _him_.

Which makes it either a testament to the universe's strength or her own weak will that she calls him on Thursday afternoon and re-starts things.

"We're not dating," she says, when he arrives at the driving range.

"Right," he says, and it's ridiculous — _ridiculous_ to think that someone could possibly swing a golf club _sadly_ , but it...it sort of feels like he does.

&&.

Tuesday afternoon, _laser tag_ , of all places.

"Well, it's just that people that are dating, they, you know, _kiss_... and stuff."

"Mm-hm."

The sound her vest makes when he shoots her a few minutes later is pathetic.

 _Womp-womp- **womp**_.

She knows the feeling.

&&.

"If we _were_ dating, you'd give me half of that Snickers bar."

"Good thing we're not," he says, and shoves the entire thing in his mouth.

&&.

(It goes on.)

(And on.)

&&.

Technically — _technically_ — even if she hadn't broken her rule about seeing him outside of work all those weeks ago, this moment right here would've still been in bounds.

They were at _work_ , after all.

In the tiny little studio off the gym that Mary Margaret occasionally used to teach yoga classes, the floor now covered in sizable mats, and Emma Swan sparring with Killian Jones.

He's in that same green t-shirt from the track, the one that would make him look torso-less in front of the weather map, only this time it's not sweaty from a run, it looks clean, because they're just getting started.

"Are you sure this isn't against Ruby's rules, Jones?"

He nods, bouncing back and forth on his bare feet as he looks for an opening.

"It's _fine_ , Swan," he says. "Just don't hit me in the face again."

"Might be an improvement." She ducks in, trying to swipe at his side, but he blocks her, both of them falling back to their respective corners.

"You wish," he says, and this time he moves, a high kick that connects with her ribs. It doesn't hurt bad, but it sure as fuck doesn't tickle, and she bites back at him, hand striking his chest.

They hadn't set incredibly detailed rules, but they both seem to be on the same wavelength, back and forth for several minutes, punctuated by breathing and the arbitrary awarding of points, just a little playful sparring…

...right up until the moment he kicks her legs out from under and she retaliates, bringing him clattering to the mat next to her.

He groans, propping himself up on his forearm to look at her. "Normally, I prefer to do other, more enjoyable activities with a woman on her back, and yet here we are again, like this."

She nudges his leg with her knee, but then loses the energy to bring it back, they're both in shorts, so they're just — touching. Her bare knee and his hairy thigh. 

The air in the studio is cool, overly cool, but she feels hot pinpricks along the back of her neck, like this is a moment, like it's supposed to _mean_ something, turn into something. 

There's some weird poetry to it all, that she'd been running from him literally when all of this started, spent months doing it metaphorically, and now she's just...tired of running. Both kinds.

"Killian," she says, getting his attention from where it’s fixed on the ceiling tiles.

"Yeah?" He cranes his neck to look at her, but doesn’t move the rest of his body, not even the part still pressed up against her knee.

"What _is_ this?"

"I — uh." His far hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear and she mentally prepares for a diversion instead of a straight answer. "I think it’s water damage, see the way the tile is browning there —?"

"Hey, come on," she nudges him, bring more of her leg into contact with him and leaving it there. 

"What do you want me to say, Emma?"

She shrugs, realizing belatedly that some of her hair is trapped awkwardly beneath her from the way it pinches. "The truth, I guess."

"Really? Because it seems like you actually _don’t_ want to hear that or —" he gestures between them, where their bodies are touching "— _see_ it."

 "I do now."

"Fine." He goes back to staring at the ceiling, and she thinks that’s all he’s going to say, when he starts up again a moment later. "I’d been looking for an in with you for a while. We’re — " 

He stops, taking a deep breath. "We’re such good friends _at_ work, but you never — when I’d go to the pub, or breakfast, or anything, you never wanted to come."

"That’s just how it is with colleagues."

"Colleagues, huh? What about Mary Margaret and David? And Elsa? And Ruby?"

"That’s different," she protests, but it sounds weak, she’s painting herself into a corner she doesn’t want to be in. "We’re friends."

"And what? You didn’t want to be _friends_ with me?"

The air conditioning is humming loudly in the background, a constant, discordant churn. Is it always so fucking _loud_? Between that and the blood rushing in her ears, she can barely hear him. 

"No, it’s not that — it’s just. I don’t know."

"Right. Okay, well, I think I’ve _trained_ you as much as I can, the student has become the ", go forth and…prosper."

He shifts to stand and she stops him instinctively, a hand on his bicep tugging him back down. He falls back to the mat, but it’s a movement that radiates resignation.

"I don’t want to be friends with you," she says, "because I don’t want to _stop_ being friends with you."

"Swan." He raises an eyebrow. 

"If we — listen, if we were friends outside of work, if we went to the pub and to breakfast and to — I don’t know — fucking _bowling_ , I’d sleep with you. I know I would, and then things would be weird and uncomfortable."

He scrubs a hand down his face. "That’s — that’s a lot, just…give me a second."

She goes back to staring at the ceiling, he’s right, there _is_ water damage up there. 

"Okay," he says.

"Okay?" She’s confused and it’s compounded by the way he’s rising up to loom over her.

"Your discomfort is a cross I’m willing to bear," he says with a pointed look at her mouth, and then he leans down, pressing his lips against hers lightly. 

And then, when she doesn’t move away, _not_ so lightly. 

She returns the pressure, opening her mouth against his, one, long unbroken kiss until they both pull back, only to meet again a second later, wetter and deeper and hotter, his tongue slipping into her mouth to stroke alongside hers.

He’s got a hand cupping her face and she’s got both of hers tangled in his hair, fistfuls of it, pulling and scratching, trying to bring him closer, and he listens, for once in his goddamn life, he _listens_ to her, shifting until his hips are cradled between her thighs and he’s keep himself braced above her on his forearms.

Gym clothes are so _thin_ , and he is so _solid_ , the weight of him on top of her somehow sexy and reassuring at the same time, and she arches up, seeking more of it as her tongue works around his, her blood singing in her veins.

"Swan," he murmurs, pulling away from her mouth to press hot, wet kisses up her jawbone. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"No," she breathes, and bucks up again, this time connecting with his erection. 

"Are you _sure_?" he says, low and gravely right near her ear, setting off a shiver that sparks down every inch of her nerve endings. "Because I think we could be more _comfortable_." He ends with a nip to her earlobe and she groans.

"You're right," she mumbles, nipping along his neck. 

He flexes his hips into her, his length pressing hard right where she needs it through the thin fabric of their gym clothes. 

"Oh, say that again," he pleads. 

"You're _right_ ," she repeats, tugging his shirt down to bite at where his neck meets his shoulder, the skin salty and firm between her teeth. 

He pulls away with a whining sort of moan, shifting from his forearms to his hands to get a better view of her. "Emma, if we try to move this somewhere else, are you going to run as soon as we get outside?"

"No," she says, trying to get him to kiss her again. 

He relents for only a second, but then he’s pulling back, insisting. "Because it’s going to be bright out there, Swan. Lots of sunlight. You’ll, uh, be able to see what you’re doing quite clearly."

"Is that so, _weatherman_?"

"Aye."

"Right," she says, nudging him off of her and pushing to her feet. "In that case… _race you_." 

And she’s out the door in seconds, Killian hollering behind her.

&&.

(Normally Emma won’t stand for a single bad word about her beloved car, but today, when Killian had implied his own car could have them somewhere with a bed faster, she’d agreed without hesitation. 

He’d been right, of course, both about his faster car, but also about it being…bright outside. She could see exactly what she was doing (…finally), and was completely calm about it.

Or, well, calm right up until the moment they’d stopped at a traffic light, Killian had slid his hand up her thigh and said, "Are you wet for me, Swan?" with just the right balance of sultry and cheesy. 

 _Then_ she’d been in a hurry.)

&&.

They reach her house faster than she’s ever done from the station before, including 4 a.m. trips where she’d had to turn around for her laptop, and the walk to the front door is weirdly…normal.

She leads the way, keying in with steady hands, kicking her shoes off into the little basket by the door as Killian does the same. 

"Do you want some water or something?" she asks, gesturing toward the kitchen. 

"No."

"Yeah, me neither."

There’s a quiet moment she’d normally fill up with the urge to bolt, but instead she just feels resolute. 

"I, uh, I got a new lamp for my bedroom last month," she says. "Do you wanna see it?"

"Absolutely."

He follows her up the stairs, close but not too close, rounding the corner to her bedroom and standing side-by-side, like they really are just going to look at her lamp. 

She flips the switch, and the lamp comes on. "It’s on the outlet," she tells him. 

"Right, right," he says, rocking back on his heels. 

"Killian."

"Yeah?"

She turns toward him. If everyone else is to be believed, Killian has spent months putting himself out there, it’s about time she meet him halfway.

"I think you should fuck me."

(Maybe a little more than halfway.)

"Righ — _oh_."

He doesn’t hesitate, leaning forward to kiss her with a force that propels her back against the wall, the light switch digging into her back and flipping the stupid lamp off and on and off. 

She's got these expensive, blackout curtains (sometimes she takes a nap when she gets home from work, sue her), and when the lamp is off, it's pretty dark in her room. Killian pulls away long enough to notice and, with a deliberate thrust of his hips, he trips the light one more time, so it's back on.

"I wanna see you," he mumbles against her mouth, his hands running up the backs of her thighs and under the hem of her shorts. 

He hitches one of her legs up around his waist, bending in a way that makes it clear he's gonna pick her up entirely, and she shakes her head, nudging him across the room until he hits the side of the bed. 

When he sits on the edge, she stands between his legs, kissing him, slow and deep and messy, his stubble scraping against her every time they change angles. It feels incredible, his warm hands skating under her shirt to span her ribs, his thumbs edging her hipbones before he shifts higher. 

Her shirt is one of those tank top/sports bra combos and he fumbles for a second before snapping the strap against her shoulder. 

"Take this bloody thing off," he growls, and she laughs as she tugs it over her head.

He doesn't waste a second, his mouth moving to her breast before she can even drop her arms back down. He sucks at her nipple, pinching and palming at her other breast before switching. 

"These are _spectacular_ , Swan," he says, nuzzling between them with wet kisses. 

Her hands curl into his hair, keeping him anchored against her chest until she needs more, and _now_. 

"Jones, Jones," she says, tugging at the strands, trying to get his attention. She manages to pull him back from her breast, his chin tipped up so he can see her, his eyes wide and glassy, and his lips wet and pink. 

It's enough that she has to press another lingering kiss against his mouth, but then she's urging him further on to the bed, torn between getting his shirt or his shorts off first. She ends up with a hand on each, fruitlessly yanking at the fabric and making frustrated noises before giving up to shuck her own shorts and underwear down. 

She steps out of them, reaching down to tug off her socks, too, when she sees Killian's clothes — socks included — hit the floor next to her. 

Which means she'd just have to look up and she'd — oh, _jesus_ , he is _unreal_ , the chest and the abs and the hair and the cock and she's had some truly rough times in her life, just miserable circumstances and shitty luck and this, right here, has _got_ to be her reward. 

"Everything in order, Swan?" he asks with an eyebrow raise. 

She reaches out, unable to stop herself, and grips his erection, warm and hard and in that perfect sweet spot of impressive-but-not-intimidating. 

"Seems so," she says, giving him a few slow strokes and relishing the way his eyes slip shut. 

After a deep, composing breath that she nearly takes as a personal challenge, he lifts her under the arms, urging her onto the bed with him.

She uses the momentum to take him down to the pillows, straddling him as she kisses up the bars of his ribs. 

His hands are smoothing through her hair, tiny encouraging sounds vibrating through his chest and the slightest change in pitch is all the warning she gets before he's got her tumbling back to the mattress, reversing their positions. 

"Now _this_ is the kind of woman-on-her-back scenarios I'm talking about," he says, shifting off and to the side of her. He skates a hand down her body, until his hand passes the short thatch of hair between her legs and then he...stops. 

He lingers there, in the space above her heat, for just long enough to drive her crazy, her hips arching, trying to force the contact. 

"Come on," she whines and the smolder she gets in return is nearly a caricature.  

"Like this," he says, stroking a finger — _finally_ — through her folds, and she's so far gone that she can't tell if it's a question, statement, or demand. 

He works her for a few, long moments, long enough, at least, for her to literally _hear_ how wet she is, as if she didn't know. He's got some complicated pattern set up, a finger inside of her, pressure on her clit, and she could come like this, _absolutely_ she could, but she'd rather —

"I want..." she gets out around a moan. 

"What is it, Emma? What do you want?"

She's got a hand pinned at her side where he's pressed next to her and it's only a tiny bit of work to get it free and grasp his cock in her fist. 

" _This_."

"How?" he asks, his hand between her legs moving slower now, his eyes slipping shut as she pumps him to the same rhythm. 

"I don't _care_ ," she breathes, but at the same moment she’s shifting toward him, rolling him onto his back as she climbs on top of him. 

When she straddles him, Killian smirks. "Seems like you care a little bit."

She reaches between their bodies, grasping his length and positioning him at her entrance. "I _really_ don’t."

"Condom?" he grits out.

"We’re good," she says, pointing at the packet of pills lying on her bedside. 

He nods, whatever else he’s going to say cut off as she sinks down on him.

"Fuck," he groans, repeating himself when she begins to move. " _Fuck_."

She tries a few experimental movements, up and down, slow and deep, rocking above him in a way that grinds against her clit just…like… _that_. 

His hands are smoothing over every bit of her he can reach, kneading her breasts, bracketing her hips, his palms feel warm and rough, and why — _why_ was she denying herself this? This is _awesome_.

It’s enough for a little while, until it’s not, and he must feel it, too, because when she swoops low to kiss him, he wraps his arms around her, rolling them. It only works as well as it does because she’s helping him, but it’s still inelegant enough that they both laugh a little as he’s propping himself above her.

"Ready?" he rumbles, nudging her nose with his own. 

"Go," she tells him, pressing her lips against his.

He starts off slow, filling her over and over again. "You’re so _wet_ ," he says, and it nearly sounds like a whine, like all of this is so much, _too_ much, and she knows the feeling. 

"Yeah, oh god, yeah," she’s trying to encourage him, raising her hips, meeting him, one hand tangled tightly in his hair and the other reaching down to grip his ass, everything building in friction and intensity. 

Her legs are wrapped around his waist and he slips an arm under her knee, readjusting before catching her eye.

"Have we talked about the importance of stretching, Swan?" and then he’s shifting her legs over his shoulders, pressing her knees into her chest as he drives in deeper. 

"Oh, f—fuck, god," she moans, and he’s so _deep_ , she can feel it everywhere, the angle treading the line between overwhelming and perfect, and it’s building, building, building, faster than she can even track, and then suddenly she’s _there_ , her body tightening around him as she shouts to the ceiling.

He grits out a strangled _yes_ in acknowledgement, and then he’s off again with less finesse this time, sloppy, hard thrusts that ripple against the edges of her orgasm, teasing them out, stretching the feeling until he slams into her into a final time, going tense as he comes with a long, low grunting moan. 

"Jesus, Emma," he mutters, pressing his face to her neck, dropping lazy kisses that have her shuddering with aftershocks. 

"Yeah," she agrees. 

When they go their separate ways to the bathrooms (her in the en suite, him in the guest one), he makes it back first, and she finds him laying naked across her bed, arms crossed behind his head.

"I win," he says. 

Taking in the sight in front of her, the pleasant, wobbly feeling in her legs, she’s willing to call it a tie.

&&.

(They get married two years later, and she refuses David’s offer to walk her down the aisle. 

She stands at the altar for half an hour until the guests arrive, followed by Killian. 

"What took you so long?")


End file.
